


Every Song In Every Key

by ImpishTubist



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-01
Updated: 2019-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:01:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21633355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpishTubist/pseuds/ImpishTubist
Summary: Crowley will never admit, not even under threat of holy water, that he actuallylikesChristmas.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 106
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Swap 2019





	Every Song In Every Key

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_nerd_youre_looking_for](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_youre_looking_for/gifts).



> Written for the [Good Omens Holiday Swap](https://goodomensholidayswap.tumblr.com/) as a gift for [the_nerd_youre_looking_for](https://archiveofourown.com/users/the_nerd_youre_looking_for/pseuds/the_nerd_youre_looking_for), who had requested a fluffy and cutesy fic. :) 
> 
> Title comes from Queen’s “Funny How Love Is”.

Crowley will never admit, not even under threat of holy water, that he actually _likes_ Christmas. 

He likes it partly because he's responsible for the more annoying aspects of it, and he takes a certain amount of pride in walking past shops and seeing Christmas decorations go up in September. Music stations that play Christmas music for twenty-four hours a day in the month leading up to the holiday--he's particularly proud of that one, too. 

But privately, he loves how humans in the northern hemisphere have created this holiday of light and warmth in the deepest, darkest part of their winter. How time seems to pause, if only for a day. How they eke out these moments of joy in their mayfly lives. He will always admire them for that, even if he never admits to it.

He especially loves quiet December nights holed up in the fire-warmed backroom of the bookshop, working his way through a bottle of wine with Aziraphale--which inevitably turns into two bottles of wine, and then three, and then at some point Crowley will find himself with a lap full of angel, trading sloppy, wine-tinged kisses while Tchaikovsky scratches away on the angel’s gramophone. 

He's in the midst of peeling away Aziraphale's bow tie on one such night to better access the pale triangle of skin between his collar bones when the angel murmurs, “Did you ever meet him?”

“Tchaikovsky? Once or twice up here, a couple of times in Hell.” Crowley dips his tongue into the hollow of Aziraphale’s neck, tasting salt. “Nice chap. Good kisser.” 

“Mm. He was, wasn’t he?” Aziraphale pulls back to reach for his wine glass. He takes a long swallow while Crowley stares at the bob of his throat, at his red and kiss-swollen lips.

The song ends, and a new one begins, this one a languid waltz Crowley hasn’t heard since the nineteenth century. The warm, yellow glow of the lamps in the backroom soften Aziraphale’s features and make his curls look golden. Crowley has never laid eyes on anyone so beautiful.

“Dance with me,” he says abruptly. Aziraphale looks at him, startled. 

“Oh, my dear, I couldn’t possibly,” he says. “I wouldn’t even know where to begin.”

“I’ll teach you.” 

“ _You_?”

“Demons dance, you know.” 

“Is _that_ what we’re calling it nowadays?” Aziraphale says cheekily, and dear _Somebody_ , Crowley loves him. He can’t help it--he leans in for another kiss, and Aziraphale brings his hands up to frame Crowley’s face. If Crowley had the power to do it, he’d freeze time on this moment forever. 

Of course, at that moment there’s a sudden knock on the shop door.

"Ignore them," Crowley murmurs, moving his lips to Aziraphale’s jaw and then down the side of Aziraphale's neck. He feels the vibration as Aziraphale chuckles. 

"My dear, I have absolutely _no_ intention of interrupting this."

"Good," Crowley says, and returns to his worship of the long, white column of Aziraphale's throat.

Someone knocks again. Then, they start pounding on the door with their fist.

"No--don't..." Crowley makes a grab for him, but Aziraphale has already slid off his lap. "Angel, come on, they're only going to want to buy something."

"And they'll keep bothering us until I tell them that we are _definitely_ closed," Aziraphale says. "I'll only be a moment, dear." 

Crowley groans and drops his head back against the sofa. This was not how he'd intended for the evening to go.

He hears the stern murmur of Aziraphale's voice, followed by one that sounds distinctly feminine--and a little desperate. Aziraphale’s tone immediately softens. Intrigued, Crowley grabs his sunglasses and goes out into the main room. He lingers by the till, crossing his arms and propping a hip against the counter, watching them. 

There's a young woman standing in the entryway with a baby on her hip, eyes wide as she pleads with Aziraphale. The baby's young, probably a couple of months shy of a year, and their blue eyes take in the shop with wide-eyed wonder. Their gaze falls on Crowley, and inexplicably, he receives a toothless grin. He can't help but smile back. 

"I know I shouldn't have left it this late, I know," she's telling Aziraphale a little frantically. "But it's only me, and I've got two jobs with three little ones at home, and this is the only time I've had all month to get to the shops. I'll be fast, I promise. I only--I want them to have some presents to open on Christmas. Please. Just a few moments, and I'll be out of your hair." 

It's a good thing, Crowley thinks, that when Adam restored the shop he made sure to add a hefty collection of children's books, which until now had never been part of Aziraphale's inventory. He also knows those are among the few books Aziraphale is willing to part with. 

"How old are they?" he asks, finally pushing himself off the counter and coming over to them. She startles, like she hadn't noticed him at first.

"Oh--twelve and fifteen."

"I think you've got some books they might be interested in, angel."

Aziraphale still looks slightly put out at having their evening interrupted, but he hides it well.

"Yes, of course. I'm sure we could find something for you, my dear. If you'd come with me--"

At that moment, the baby she's holding scrunches up its face and lets out a wail. 

"Oh--Jonah, no, please not now," she begs softly, bouncing the child. "I know you're hungry, I'm sorry, Mummy will only be a few minutes--"

"I can take him." 

Aziraphale and the woman both turn to stare at him. Crowley bristles slightly at the incredulous looks on both their faces.

"What?" he snaps, defensive. "I _was_ a nanny, or did you forget about that bit?"

"No, dear, of course not." Aziraphale looks back at the woman. "He _is_ rather good with children, Miss..."

"Just call me Jessica." The woman bites her lip, considering Crowley. "If you're sure..."

Crowley wordlessly holds out his arms. She hands over the baby--Jonah--and then sets her heavy diaper bag gratefully on the floor. 

"I'll feed him," Crowley says. "You two go look at books, or whatever." 

He plucks a bottle from the bag and goes off to the kitchen in Aziraphale's flat above the shop. He heats it, tests the temperature of the milk against his wrist, and then goes back downstairs. He settles in his usual chair in the backroom, the one closest to the fire, and nestles the baby in the crook of his arm.

“Jonah,” he says, pressing the nipple of the bottle against the baby’s lip. He latches on immediately, and begins to eat. “Good name, that one. Comes from Yonah. Means _dove_. ‘Course, the first Jonah was thrown overboard at sea and swallowed by a fish, so maybe not the best legacy to have.” 

The baby stares up at him while he eats. His eyes are impossibly blue-- _angel blue_ , Crowley thinks before he can help it. One of the baby’s hands grabs a fistful of Crowley’s shirt, and Crowley practically _melts_. He hasn’t held a baby since Warlock was an infant. He hadn’t thought that he missed it. 

He finishes feeding the baby, finds a towel in the diaper bag, and throws it over his shoulder so he can burp Jonah. His task complete, he settles the baby in his arms once more, Jonah's body growing heavy as he starts to drowse.

“That’s right, love,” Crowley murmurs to him. “You just nod off, there’s a good lad.” 

But Jonah is a restless child--with another pang, Crowley is reminded once again of Warlock. He stirs, waking himself, and starts to fuss. Crowley gets up, cradling Jonah with practiced ease as he starts to slowly pace the room, back and forth, the way he had done to soothe Warlock on his restless nights. 

It’s apparent that the baby doesn’t want to sleep, though, and Crowley wanders into the main area of the bookshop. He browses the shelves until he finds what he’s looking for, and pulls down a thin book from the stacks.

“How about a story, hm?”

Jonah takes the proffered book in his hands and examines the cover. Crowley goes over to the sofa and sits on it with Jonah in his lap. He opens the book to the first page, and begins to read.

He knows the baby probably comprehends nothing of what he’s saying, but Jonah is sufficiently distracted by the illustrations and Crowley’s lilting voice. He pats the pages of the book, running his pudgy fingers over the pictures of the animals, and sometimes babbles along as Crowley reads. 

Jonah soon starts to grow subdued, quiet, and Crowley fishes a blanket out of the diaper bag. He reclines on the sofa and settles Jonah on his chest, the blanket tucked around him. Jonah snuffles and snuggles close, and something in Crowley cracks in two. He _has_ missed this.

He gently cups the back of the baby’s head and rubs a thumb against his downy hair. Jonah makes a soft cooing noise in the back of his throat, and soon is breathing deep and even. Voices drift to him from the back of the shop--Jonah’s mother and Aziraphale are still deep in conversation over her purchases. 

Crowley lets them be for half an hour. That’s about as long as his corporation can bear staying in one position, the price he pays for forcing his serpentine form to take on a human one. He sits up, so slowly it’s hardly perceptible to the baby, and adjusts the blanket around him. Then, he gets to his feet, and wanders to the back of the shop.

“Coming along alright, angel?” he asks. Jessica has an armful of books, and Aziraphale stops talking mid-sentence to turn around.

“Yes, quite well, dear.” Aziraphale’s eyes are dancing. “I see you and Jonah have bonded.” 

“All he wanted was food and a cuddle. Can’t say I blame him. What do you have there?”

Aziraphale excitedly tells him about the books they’ve selected for Jessica’s older children. Crowley barely hears a word of it. He’s too caught up in watching Aziraphale talk _about_ the books. He loves watching Aziraphale lose himself in the things that he adores.

“And was there anything else you were looking for, my dear?” Aziraphale asks, turning to Jessica. Crowley hides a smile in the corner of his mouth. When he’s dealing with a customer who is uninterested in his most prized possessions, Aziraphale really is the most attentive bookshop owner. 

“Oh--no, I think, I think this about covers it.” But Jessica sounds unsure, and bites her lip. Aziraphale leans toward her, eager to help her find that perfect book.

“Are you certain? There’s nothing else I can help you with?”

“Well.” She bites her lip again, eyes darting from Aziraphale to Crowley and back again. “My oldest, Tom. He, well. He came out to me the other day. He, um. He likes boys. And I don’t know, maybe there’s a book he might like? Something--something that has a character like him? I want him to, erm. I want him to have stories where kids like him get to have a happy ending, too.” 

Aziraphale actually claps his hands together at that, and his eyes are overbright when he says, “ _Oh_ , wonderful. Yes, I have just the thing for you. Come with me.” 

Crowley smiles after his angel as he leads Jessica to another section of the bookstore, to a brand-new bookcase where he’s taken to stocking books recommended to him by the university students who meet here for their book club twice a month. They’re an eccentric group, and Aziraphale has taken all of them happily under his wing (it helps that they never want to buy any of his books). He regales them with tales of his past escapades (fudging a few of the details, so they don’t know that he’s actually talking about his dalliances with Oscar Wilde and Will Shakespeare and Leonard Bernstein), and in return they seem determined to get him brought up to speed on modern queer literature. Aziraphale pulls a stack of books from the shelves and starts telling Jessica about them, so she can choose which one she thinks her son will like best. 

Jonah stirs and murmurs something against Crowley’s shirt. 

“Shh,” he whispers, dropping his head so his forehead brushes the top of the baby’s head. He sways gently back and forth, rhythmic in his movements. “Hush, it’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

He hums one of the lullabies he used to sing to Warlock--best not to use the actual lyrics, not with his mother within earshot--and Jonah settles again. Crowley meanders over to Aziraphale and Jessica, still gently rocking the baby, and finds them with their heads bent together over a pile of books Aziraphale has spread across the counter. They spend the next half hour deep in discussion, while Crowley paces the shop, the sleeping baby heavy in his arms. He doesn’t mind the weight. He knows that at any time he can set Jonah in his carrier and leave him be, but...he doesn’t want to. 

Crowley finally goes to sit on the worn sofa near the front of the shop, the one that was horrifically lumpy because Aziraphale thought would discourage customers from lingering. The comfortable sofa and chairs are in the backroom, which no one else frequents but the two of them. But Crowley imagines a comfortable sofa when he settles into it, and that’s what it becomes. He nestles the baby in the crook of his arm and watches him for a while. Jonah sleeps with his hands curled into fists, lips slightly parted. A bit of drool dribbles from the corner of his mouth, and Crowley dabs at it with the blanket. He smooths a thumb over Jonah’s eyelids, and then his cheek. Human babies are so _soft_. So vulnerable. So helpless. It’s a wonder their species managed to survive at all. 

Finally, Aziraphale and Jessica make their way to the front of the shop, Jessica’s arms laden with bags of books. Crowley shares a glance with his angel, and knows that he didn’t charge her for any of them. Jessica shoots a grateful look at Crowley and steps outside to load the bags in her car. 

“You’re going to have to relinquish him, I’m afraid, my dear,” Aziraphale says gently. 

“I’ve got another minute, angel.” Crowley runs the back of a finger down the baby’s cheek. “Do you remember when Warlock was this small?” 

“I do. You looked terrified when Mrs Dowling handed him to you.” 

“I hadn’t held a baby since the Ark. I was certain I was going to hurt him.”

Aziraphale brushes a hand through Crowley’s hair. “You never give yourself enough credit, dearest.” 

Jessica comes back into the shop, and Crowley reluctantly gets to his feet. He crouches carefully in front of the carrier and settles Jonah in it, tucking the blanket around him before securing him in it. The baby remains asleep throughout it all. 

“Thank you _so_ much,” she says softly. “I can’t tell you how much this means to me. Both of you. I just--I don’t know what to say.” 

“Happy Christmas,” Aziraphale says, smiling. Jessica picks up the carrier and balances it on one forearm. 

“You two are sweet together,” she says quietly, mindful of the sleeping baby. “And you’re good with him. You have kids?” 

Aziraphale seems at a loss for words. “Er--”

“Grown,” Crowley says, because Warlock and Adam are both off at university now, and Jessica smiles knowingly.

“You miss it, don’t you?” 

“It goes fast,” Crowley says, which isn’t an answer and is at the same time. 

Aziraphale sees her out of the shop, and watches as she drives away. Crowley busies himself with straightening all the discarded books, putting them back in their proper places on the shelves and tidying up the shop as best he can. Aziraphale likes the clutter--it’s the exact opposite of Heaven, this bookshop--and Crowley won’t take that away from him, but too much mess makes him anxious. And he feels particularly anxious right now, until Aziraphale lays a hand between his shoulder blades--right where his wings would manifest--and says, “That was kind of you, my dear.”

“Ngk,” Crowley says. “Wasn’t kind.”

“No?”

“No. Purely selfish, that was.” Crowley realizes his sunglasses are still on his face. He never wears them anymore when it’s just the two of them, but can’t bring himself to take them off just yet.

“Oh?” Aziraphale isn’t going to let this go. 

“Yeah, angel. I liked it, alright?” 

“Yes, dear, that’s quite alright.” Aziraphale’s smile is so soft, Crowley fears it will break him. He looks away. “I know how you feel about children. I’ve always found it rather--”

“Don’t you dare say _nice._ ”

“Sweet,” Aziraphale says. He holds out a hand. With his other, he snaps his fingers, and a new record begins to play. “Now. I believe you were saying something about teaching me to dance?”

“Thought you said you couldn’t.” Crowley allows himself to be led into the backroom again.

“Yes, well. I have all of eternity to practice, don’t I?” 

“I love you,” Crowley blurts, because how can he not? He loves this petty, ridiculous, _beautiful_ creature.

“Yes, I know.” Aziraphale goes up on the balls of his feet to kiss Crowley’s nose. “Happy Christmas, my dear.”


End file.
